


Like a Girl

by notyouranswer (gorgeouschaos)



Series: Broken Pedestals [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always Female Dean Winchester, BAMF Dean Winchester, Consensual Underage Sex, Female Dean Winchester, Feminist Themes, Gen, Genderbending, Genderswap, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgeouschaos/pseuds/notyouranswer
Summary: Dean dresses like a boy until she hits high school, at which point she starts dressing like she’s trying to give John a heart attack.She still wears the kind of boots you can either run in or kick the shit out of someone with, though, and Sam knows for a fact his older sister always has at least two knives on her. She’s more of a badass than he’ll ever be.(Dean Winchester is born a girl. Some things are different; the important things aren’t.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Broken Pedestals [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594609
Comments: 33
Kudos: 265





	1. Pre-Series to Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: sexual harassment/some non-consensual touching/vague discussions of rape, misogyny/sexism (both external and internalized), the sexualization of minors and women in general, consensual underage sex, John Winchester’s A+ parenting. I think that’s it. Hit me up if you’d like more information.  
> Standard disclaimer: If there’s anything offensively/inaccurately portrayed, please let me know. I assure you it’s accidental and I will correct it immediately.  
> A/N: Will I ever stop posting WIPs? The world may never know. I’ll try to update in the next week or so.  
> I read a really good genderbend fic and wanted to read some more, but most of the other fics under the tag were porn, so here’s my contribution to BAMF female Dean.  
> As always, thanks for reading, hope you like it, and I live for feedback :)

Deanna Winchester never made a conscious decision to go by Dean. Her daddy just called her that, so it became her name.

The way she dressed was always a conscious decision, though. It was an act of rebellion.

(The way you dress is always an act of rebellion, when you’re a girl.)

Dean liked to wear dresses when she was young, but she got tired of them when she was about seven.

“You look pretty, though.” John looked startled when Dean told him she was sick of girl clothes.

“I don’t wanna look pretty,” Dean told him, her thin arms folded across her chest. “I wanna be able to run around and play Star Wars.”

John shook his head and smiled a little. “All right, Dean. You can buy clothes that you can run around in.”

“And help you hunt in,” Dean added. 

John’s smile faded. Dean missed how her mom could make her daddy smile. “Let’s stick with running around at recess for now, okay kid?”

Dean wore jeans and t-shirts from then on. When it was cold, she wore a sweatshirt. Sammy wore the things she outgrew and John just shrugged.

“She’s a tomboy,” he told anyone who asked. “She’ll grow out of it.”

Dean chopped off her hair when she was twelve. John was teaching her how to escape a chokehold, but she couldn’t do it because he got a grip on her hair.

John gave her a buzz cut just like Sammy’s.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, grinning. Dean ran a hand over her head and smiled back.

“Like it won’t get in the way.”

“Good,” John said. 

To Dean’s horror and disgust, she began to develop breasts.

“They’re stupid,” she told her bemused father. “They’re gonna get in the way, and they look weird.”

“Um.” John coughed. “They’re kinda part of being a girl, Dean.”

“They’re stupid,” Dean repeated. 

John bought her training bras at Walmart. Dean hated them.

She hated how her body was changing into something softer, something less practical. 

She wore a lot of shapeless sweatshirts that year.

When Dean started her period, she figured she could deal with it on her own. One of her sixth-grade classes had taught the girls about periods while the boys ran laps outside, so Dean thought she more or less knew what to do.

Dean was proven wrong when she woke up to blood soaking through the sheets.

“Daddy?” she asked, voice small. She hadn’t called John that in years. 

John bought her a package of tampons and pads. He shoved them at her and promptly left the room. 

Dean learned what to do with them mostly through trial and error. 

Sam gave her a chocolate bar once when she had throbbing cramps. John had said taking Advil too much was bad for you and refused to let her have any.

Dean blamed her tearing up on the stupidity that was female hormones.

She split the chocolate with her younger brother.

Dean was catcalled for the first time when she was twelve and walking Sam home. She put both middle fingers in the air and walked no faster. She’d heard worse language in the hallways, after all. She didn’t get why she was so shaken up.

Sam told John about it. Dean’s kid brother was oblivious to the tension that his words caused.

“You okay, Dean?” John asked. His hand was white around his beer bottle. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

After dinner, John took her into the Impala and told her that if a man ever touched her in certain ways, she should cut his hands off.

“Then call me, and I’ll kill him,” John added.

Dean was a little too young to understand, but she learned fast.

(Every girl gets taught about sex when they’re too young to understand. They learn fast.)

John took Dean on a hunt when she was thirteen. 

“You’re not bad,” John told her as they were driving back. 

She glowed with the praise. It more than made up for the pain from her bruises.

He hadn’t even added, “for a girl”.

A little after Dean switched from training bras to normal bras-- she still wasn’t sure if that conversation had been more awkward for her or for John-- she started dressing differently. 

John wasn’t around for the first three weeks of school, but he’d left money for Dean to take Sam clothes shopping. Dean had been working at the local grocery store and she had some extra money, too. 

She took the chance to change some things up.

If people were going to look at her and think _trailer trash_ and _slut_ and _easy_ because of her breasts and her hair and her beat-up clothes, why not use it?

“Where’s the rest of the shirt?” Sam asked when she wore some of her new clothes.

Dean smiled and tied her flannel around her waist. “This is the shirt, Sammy.”

Sam blinked. “Oh. Okay. You look nice.”

For a ten year old, Dean thought, ruffling Sam’s hair, her brother was all right.

***

When John walked in and saw Dean’s new wardrobe, he closed his eyes, hoping he was hallucinating. 

When he opened them, Dean was still there, wearing ripped jeans that looked like they’d been shrink-wrapped on and a top that made John want to throw his jacket over her.

“Uh,” he said. 

“Hey, Dad,” Sam said brightly. “Dean says that’s the whole shirt.”

John met Dean’s eyes and saw nothing but defiance in them.

John closed his eyes again. 

_Mary, there is no doubt this is your daughter._

“Okay, then,” he said. “As long as you can hide your knife.”

“Yes, sir," Dean chirped.

John missed Mary even more than usual. Dean was a good kid, but when she got her mind set on something, God help the man who tried to change her mind.

He was pretty sure Mary would have glared at him if he commented on how Dean was dressing, though. She’d never been the type to conform to what people expected.

“Okay,” he repeated. It was more to himself than to Dean.

John worried that his daughter was going to attract the wrong kind of attention, and he trained her harder than ever in hand-to-hand just in case, but he didn’t tell her how to dress.

He’d been raised to respect women, no matter how they looked, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t raise his children the same way.

John was fairly certain Mary would come back from the dead and slap him if he didn’t.

Dean did attract the kind of attention that made John want to fetch his shotgun. The way the boys trailed after her made John grind his teeth and wish she’d never grown out of her tomboy phase.

His daughter seemed to thrive on the attention, though. John begrudgingly didn’t comment.

(Much.)

Dean would be a natural at hustling. Nobody expected girls who looked pretty and vulnerable to be pool sharks, and men in bars were much more willing to put down cash when they could get a flash of cleavage.

Some things never changed.

***

“You shoot like a girl,” Sam snapped once. He was tired and disappointed and sick of being moved around. Dean was the only target he could take his frustration out on, because John would have tanned his hide if Sam talked to him like that.

John glanced at Dean. One of his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

Dean lifted the rifle to her shoulder, aimed, and fired. The bottle on the fence exploded in a shower of glass as her bullet hit home.

“Oh, sorry, you mean better than you?” she asked.

John chuckled into his beer.

Dean took particular pleasure in arm-barring her brother during sparring that night. 

“Sorry,” he muttered as he climbed into bed beside her. “I didn’t mean it.”

She ignored him. 

It was tiring to prove that she was better over and over, but it was also incredibly satisfying. 

She had to find it satisfying, or else she’d end up shooting the next man who called her _sweetheart._

Dean officially lost her virginity to the captain of the swim team at a school somewhere in Louisiana. His name was Tyler, which Dean thought was about the most stereotypical jock name possible, but he was hot and he called her beautiful while he unhooked her bra with practiced hands. 

The rumors were all over school the next day. Dean smirked and put a little extra sway into her steps.

The town was just another place she’d be leaving behind in the Impala’s rearview mirror.

Besides, if Tyler could sleep with several girls and be admired for it, why was Dean the slut?

Sam got into a fistfight with a classmate who called Dean a whore. For once, John wasn’t pissed off about Sam attracting attention.

No matter which town they were in, the boys followed Dean around like panting dogs. John broke out his drill sergeant voice on the few who got too pushy.

Dean just laughed. 

She fucked some of the interesting boys, she made out with some of the others, and most of them she just teased. She slept with fewer girls out of practicality, but she liked them too.

Dean liked the way she could make people do things because of how she looked and acted. Every time someone fell for her, she learned another way to use her body as a weapon that John never would have taught her.

When Dean picked Sam up from school, most of the mothers looked down their noses at her and her brother; some of the fathers looked at her with the kind of hunger in their eyes that made her think about the switchblade strapped to her ankle. 

Dean bared her teeth in something that wasn’t a smile and didn’t change anything about how she looked.

They all watched her. 

They would have anyway. All Dean had done was take advantage of it.

Nobody asked about the bruises and cuts the hunts left Dean with. The people she hung out with were all too familiar with bruises that couldn’t be explained, and the people she slept with were too busy to care.

“You, uh, you’re being safe, right?” John mumbled once. “‘Cause I know I can’t stop you, even though I kinda wish I could, but, uh…”

Dean rolled her eyes. “Yes, sir. I’m not that stupid.”

“Good.” Dean’s dad looked incredibly relieved. 

Dean never told John that some of the people she went out with were girls. Somehow she doubted that would go over well. 

Dean dropped out of school when she was sixteen. Sam and Bobby were more upset about it than she thought was necessary. She had to have a backup for when the money ran out; Sanmy was growing like a weed and was always hungry.

John had been right. She was a natural at hustling.

(John did feel obligated to deck the first man who tried to grope his daughter, even if she was sixteen and more than capable of handling herself.

It was a dad thing.)

John let Dean start hustling alone when she was seventeen. Her first few cons went smoothly.

The fourth time, a couple drunk college boys got pissed off about losing to a girl.

“Hey,” one of them said, grabbing her arm, “I think you owe us some attention to make up for stealing all our money.”

Dean appraised him. She felt the weight of the gun on her thigh, the comforting pressure of the switchblade on her ankle, and smiled. 

“I think you should let go of me right the fuck now,” she said.

His grip tightened. Dean’s smile widened.

Dean got back to the hotel room with a black eye, a split lip, busted knuckles, several bruises, and a couple hundred bucks. The blood on her teeth was just a slightly different shade of red than her lipstick.

John was in a different state on a salt-and-burn, so it was left to Sam to help Dean clean up. 

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” Sam muttered, dabbing blood off his sister’s face. 

“Eh.” She shrugged and hissed when the movement pulled on her sore shoulder. “It is what it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be this way.”

Dean grabbed the rag and turned away. “I gotta keep you fed somehow, Sammy.”

Sam made a frustrated noise and went into the bathroom.

***

Sam liked to think he was less violent than his dad and sister, but he got into his fair share of fights over the years.

Almost every time, it was over Dean.

“I don’t have any honor, Sammy,” Dean told him as she handed him a bag of frozen peas. She was seventeen and Sam was thirteen. “Stop trying to defend it.”

“They’re calling you a slut,” Sam muttered.

“They ain’t wrong,” Dean said. She smiled, but her green eyes were flinty beneath her eye shadow.

Sam stopped being obligated to fight once he got to high school and Dean started being cool.

“Dude, your sister’s so hot,” one of his friends said in awe. 

Sam shrugged. “I guess.”

John wasn’t around enough to care, but Sam worried sometimes when Dean went out on her own. 

He worried more when she went with John on hunts.

Sometimes it felt like Sam spent most of his time worrying about Dean. 

Even when she dressed as provocatively as possible to go out and hustle pool, Dean always wore her steel-toed boots. 

“I need to be able to run or kick the shit out of someone at any given point,” she told him, applying blood-red lipstick. “Always be prepared, Sammy. Like a Boy Scout, or whatever.”

“It’s Sam,” he said, looking up from his chemistry homework.

She snorted. “I’m the older one, I can call you what you want.”

Sam watched her strap a holster to her thigh and slide her handgun into it. Her skirt barely hid the weapon. He knew Dean already had a knife strapped to her ankle, too, and probably brass knuckles in the pocket of their dad’s leather jacket.

“Be careful,” he said.

Dean rolled her eyes and left. 

Sam went back to his homework. He was going to get out one day. He was going to be more than a pool shark.

He was going to be more than Dean.

When Dean came back with a wad of money tucked into her bra, blood on her hands, and a too-wide smile, Sam slammed his textbook shut.

“I’m going with you next time,” he said.

Sam might want to be more than a hunter and more than his sister, but like hell was he going to let Dean get hurt for him.

Every time the money John left ran out after that, Dean pulled on one of her transparent tops, strapped on her gun, and left with Sam by her side. 

Sam got very good at channeling Dad’s _do I have to go through you son_ drill sergeant voice very quickly.

It was fucked up that the guys Dean conned respected what they perceived as competition more than Dean herself. 

Sam said as much and Dean laughed. 

“What else is new,” she said. “Whole world's fucked up. But hey, we’ve got rent money.”

When Sam left for Stanford, Dean drove him.

"Dad's not gonna be happy," Sam warned. He wasn't crying, but he wanted to.

Dean shrugged. Sam took the chance to memorize his sister's face. He didn't know when, or if, he'd see her again.

Dean's face was set in tense lines that made her look much older than she really was. Her makeup was as precise as ever, but her mascara was smeared from where she'd swiped away tears.

Sam couldn't imagine a life without her. He didn’t know what it would be like for her to live without him.

"Come with me," he blurted. 

"You know I can't, Sammy," she said. 

"Why?" Sam demanded. "Why can't you ever just not so what Dad says? Do you want to spend the rest of your life following his orders?"

Sam watched his sister's hands go white on the Impala's steering wheel.

"I'm a hunter, Sammy," Dean said. "This is my life."

"It doesn't have to be. You don't have to be his perfect goddamn daughter."

Sam realized he'd said the wrong thing immediately.

"Being his daughter has nothing to do with it."

"Sorry."

Dean turned up the radio.

When they got to Palo Alto, Dean gave him a brief, one-armed hug.

"Go on then, bitch," she said.

"Jerk," he choked out.

People paid more attention to Dean than to Sam. Sam guessed a hot girl in a muscle car was pretty hard to ignore.

He took a deep breath and started walking.

***

When Dean showed up four years later, Sam got his ass kicked, and then his sister hit it off with Jessica.

"Let's hang out sometime," Jess told Dean before Dean and Sam left. "You can tell me stories about my boyfriend being stupid and we can do drunk karaoke."

"It's a deal," Dean promised. She winked. "Might have to steal you away from Sammy while I'm at it."

Sam dragged his sister away. "No stealing my girlfriend."

Sam looked Dean over in the light of the garage.

Dean still dressed like she was trying to give their dad a heart attack. She was wearing a Metallica t-shirt cut off to the midriff and low-slung jeans that clung tight to her curves. 

Her boots were the same, too, and she still wore John's leather jacket. Her hair was shoulder-length and shaggy now. 

Apart from the hair and her new scars, she looked exactly like she had the day he'd left.

"I know," she said, noticing his gaze. "I look fantastic."

Sam sighed through his nose. Just like that, he was back in his little brother role, trailing along in his big sister’s shadow.

He guessed some things never changed.


	2. Seasons One Through Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t want to retell the entirety of the series, because that might get boring-- especially considering the other two fics in this series I'm planning-- so this chapter is just some of the scenes that I think would have been different/some scenes I wanted to put in from seasons one through three.  
> New warnings: a minor stripping for financial reasons, I guess? I probably go overboard with warnings, but hey, safe than sorry and all that.

Dean had a talent for getting information out of men. 

Sam broke out his best Dad voice to scare guys away on more than one occasion. It came back to him with the ease of practice.

"You don't have to flash your boobs every time we interrogate a guy," Sam muttered as he watched an overeager college kid practically run away.

"Makes it easier, though," Dean said. "Guys lose their ability to think when they see a nice pair of tits. A push-up bra and a few undone buttons and they’ll tell me just about anything.”

Sam bit his tongue. She wasn't wrong.

Sam knew his sister had turned herself into a weapon in more ways than one. 

The fact that she'd had to was just another reason to hate their father and every goddamn person in America.

Men called Dean a bitch even more than she called Sam one. Sam gritted his teeth and let his sister deal with it, since she was more than capable.

Dean was more than capable. Sam just hated letting that shit pass.

Sam did lose his temper once, when Dean went into a room alone and left him waiting with a doctor.

“You ever tap that?” the doctor asked, eyes glued to Dean through the window. “Nice tits, even if she’s a little bitchy for my tastes.”

Sam’s hands curled into fists.

“Let’s get out of here fast,” Sam muttered when Dean walked out of the room. “I might have committed a crime.”

“And this is news?” Dean asked, but she half-jogged beside him as they headed towards the elevator.

The doctor wound up with a concussion. In Sam's opinion, he'd gotten off easy.

“They call me a slut if I sleep with them and a bitch if I don’t,” Dean told him one day while driving, seemingly at random. She turned her head towards him, her eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. It made Sam nervous when she did that, but the Impala stayed steady between the lines. “They’re never gonna learn, so why bother trying to teach them?”

Sam frowned. He can vividly remember what happened to the last person who had called his sister a bitch to her face. It had involved Dean’s gun and some very graphic threats.“What would you call what you do, then?”

Dean flashed him a grin. “Therapeutic.”

Sam huffed and shook his head. He couldn’t help but smile back.

Cassie…

Cassie still wasn’t ready to be out.

“My career, my family…” she said, her face stubborn, “I can’t lose them over you, Dean. Not when you’ll just leave me anyway. It’s not worth what would happen to me if I came out.”

Dean left Cassie without saying goodbye.

The sex was good, even great, but Dean drove away without looking back.

Dean wasn’t sure what point she was trying to prove, but she was goddamn certain she was proving it.

Sam and Dean drove to Kansas City looking for a vengeful spirit that was haunting a strip club. 

It took Sam all of five and a half seconds to realize there was something bothering Dean. 

“What’s up?” he asked, pulling her aside before they went inside.

Dean didn’t make eye contact. Sam’s concern increased.

“Nothing.”

“Dean.”

Dean sighed and raked a hand through her hair. She never bothered putting it up like an FBI agent. She refused to wear heels, either. Sam was just waiting for someone to comment so he could watch Dean rip into them.

“I just, uh… You remember that winter we spent here? Dad used to come to this place.”

Sam studied her face. He was pretty sure Dean was telling the truth-- he didn’t think she was lying, and he believed her. There was something else, though...

“Okay. Anything else?”

“No,” she snapped. Dean turned on her heel and strode into the club like she was going to crush the manager beneath her steel-toed boots.

Sam followed. 

Yeah, she definitely wasn’t telling him something.

The strippers-- dancers, Sam corrected himself-- didn’t like to talk to him. 

They talked to Dean, though. 

Dean shrugged it off and Sam listened to the conversations behind the two-way mirror. He was pretty sure it was the janitor by the third witness, but his thinking got derailed when the final witness walked in and asked, “Dean?”

Sam did a double-take. 

“Oh, shit,” Dean said, standing up. “Hey, Angie, how’ve you been? How’s Steve?”

“Oh, you know.” Angie shrugged and smiled. “I’ve been okay. Steve’s in high school now, can you believe it?” 

In a rush, Angie added, “But seriously, is it really you? It’s been, what, ten years? How are you?”

Dean’s smile was forced. She gestured to the chair across the table and Angie sat down. Dean followed suit. “I’m doing fine. I’m an FBI agent, actually. Out here working a case-- those weird murders?”

Angie nodded. “Yeah. Shit, man, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you got out.”

Sam frowned.

“You still dancing, then?” Dean asked. 

“Yeah.” Angie lifted her chin. “It’s better money than I could make anywhere else, without a GED.”

“Hey, you know I get it,” Dean said. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do know that. Sorry. Just sick of dealing with assholes.”

Dean shared a commiserating look with Angie before clearing her throat.

“It’s great to see you, but, uh… Do you know anything about how Jessie and Crystal died?”

Sam ignored the rest of the conversation.

“Dean, did you work at this place?” he asked after she started the car.

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and pulled out into traffic. “You were listening to Angie.”

“Yeah.”

Sam was beginning to think he’d have to ask again when Dean said, almost too softly to be heard over the sound of the engine, “You remember anything about that winter, Sammy?”

Sam thought about it. “I think… Dad had a broken leg, right?”

“Yeah. Anything else?”

Sam shook his head. 

“Okay. Dad was laid up with a broken leg, you were… what, twelve, thirteen?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus, that was a while ago. Back before you grew into Gigantor.” 

Dean laughed a little. “Anyway. Dad was laid up, you were tiny, and Dad said I had to come up with rent money or we’d get kicked out, and it wasn’t like we could live out of Baby and still send you to school, you know?”

Dean shot Sam a glance. Sam nodded and she kept going. 

“I tried to hustle, but they wouldn’t let me in on my own, and besides Dad told me not to. So I, uh, I started looking for jobs, but nowhere would take me. I got a little desperate and walked into that strip club, and they hired me, and I paid the rent.”

Sam took a deep breath. He wants to ask a lot of questions, but what came out of his mouth was, “Were you okay? Hell, _are_ you okay?”

Dean snorted. “I’m fine. I’m not traumatized or anything. I mean, yeah, it’s not exactly a classy joint, but the girls took care of each other. And hey, I’m an excellent dancer, and as smoking hot as I am,” she tossed her hair, “I made bank. Even had enough to buy you some new shoes.”

Sam absorbed that information. 

He had a lot to say about John’s parenting, but he kept it to himself. Sam didn’t want to start a fight right now.

“Did Dad actually go there?” He wanted to know if she’d been telling the truth. If so, there was another unpleasant layer to this story.

For the first time during the conversation, Dean’s composure cracked.

“Yeah.” Dean laughed, but it was a bitter, ugly sound. Her knuckles went white on top of the steering wheel. “Yeah, he did. Came in, saw one of my routines, dragged me home, clocked me one. Said he didn’t give a fuck how I dressed but he wasn’t gonna let me be a whore. Let me start hustling pool on my own after that.”

Sam’s hands were curled into fists. He remembered Dean having a black eye for a while that winter, but...

“Still can’t listen to _Pour Some Sugar on Me,_ ” Dean added thoughtfully.

_When we catch up with Dad--_

Sam couldn’t find the words for what he was going to do.

The next time _Pour Some Sugar on Me_ started playing on a cassette tape, Sam skipped it before Dean could.

She didn’t comment.

The crossroads demon who answered Dean’s summons wore the guise of a man.

Dean kissed him with no hesitation.

When she pulled away, Dean licked her lips and thought absently that if she’d been wearing lipstick it would have tasted like sulfur.

“See you in a year, lover,” the demon said, smirking. His red eyes roved over her. 

Despite her familiarity with that look, it still made Dean’s skin crawl.

“Fuck off, asshole,” Dean snapped, and she stormed away as he laughed.

Her hands didn’t stop shaking until she was twenty-four miles down the highway.

It was worth it.

(In any universe, it would always be worth it to Dean.)

***

Dean slept her way through half the country in the first week of that year.

Sam did his best to ignore it-- it was annoying as all get out when he had to spend the night in the Impala, but at the moment, he would’ve let Dean run him over if it made her feel better. 

When he got a call from Bobby, though, he did have to brave his sister’s fury and interrupt her tryst of the night. 

(It was a relief to have an excuse. Sitting in the car waiting for his sister to get done with her one-night stand was not his idea of fun.)

He pounded on the door of the house of as loudly as he could. Sam attempted to block out the moans and gasps coming from inside.

He had enough nightmares without adding in how his sister sounded in bed.

“Dean,” Sam called. “We need to go.”

“Fuck off, Sam,” Dean yelled back. Her voice broke off into a groan while she was saying his name.

Sam desperately tried not to imagine what was happening.

“Bobby called,” Sam said. “We’ve got something big.”

There was a pause.

Dean emerged from the house just as Sam was about to knock again. She was flushed, her hair and lipstick were a mess, and the only thing she was wearing above the waist was a button-up... which no longer had buttons.

Sam hurriedly turned away.

“What?” Dean snapped. “I was kind of distracted.”

Sam sputtered and took off the flannel he was wearing, his gaze on the Impala.

“Look, you know I don’t care what you wear, but I’m your brother and I’d really prefer it if I couldn’t see all of your… your, uh, entire chest, okay?”

Dean rolled her eyes and shrugged into his flannel.

“So what was so important you had to interrupt?” she asked. 

Sam decided it was safe to turn back around. “Demons.”

Dean’s face switched from annoyance to razor-sharp focus.

“Let’s go.”

“Do you want to put on a, uh…”

Dean slid behind the driver’s seat and Sam shut up.

Ruby’s vessel was the kind of beautiful half of Dean had always wanted to be-- tall, blue-eyed, blonde, and simultaneously curvy and lean. 

The other half of Dean wanted to make out with her just to ruin that perfect lipstick.

“Like what you see?” Ruby asked when she noticed Dean looking.

Dean rolled her eyes. Ruby was wearing someone pretty-- that didn’t mean Dean didn’t want to shank the bitch on principle. “Your meatsuit’s got a nice rack. That’s all.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, scandalized.

Ruby laughed, though. “Doesn’t she just?” 

The demon ran her hands over her body in a way that made Dean more nauseous than anything. Sam’s eyes about popped out, though.

Dean’s brother had terrible taste. She’d have to talk him out of fucking demons before she died. Otherwise, he’d wind up with seven kinds of supernatural STDs.

Dean had seen one case of herpes transmitted by a succubus, and that was more than enough to have scared her off of chasing demonic tail.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Ruby added, looking Dean over.

Dean had had enough of being hit on by demons for several lifetimes. 

Even the cute ones. 

“Buy me dinner first, darlin’,” Dean drawled, putting all of her mongrel midwest-southern accent into it. _Darling_ wasn’t the word she wanted to use, but even though Dean hated Ruby’s guts, Dean refused to call another woman a word like _slut_. 

It was a principle kind of thing.

Ruby just smirked.

“Oh, Dean,” Alastair purred, looking her over while she glared. “I’m so glad you’re finally here, sweetheart.”

“I ain’t your fucking sweetheart,” Dean spat, and the demon’s white eyes glowed.

Forty years later, Dean woke up in her own grave, Alastair’s whisper of _you can be my whore, then_ echoing in her ears.

Dean was the daughter of Mary Campbell, and Campbell women were made of steel.

“Fuck off,” she told Alastair's memory, and she slammed her hands into her coffin lid.


	3. Season Four through Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *checks “last updated” date*  
> *winces*  
> I’ve had half of this written for months and never got around to finishing it. The end of season fourteen kinda broke me a bit and I wanted to do this fic justice. Sorry ‘bout the delay. This will probably be the last chapter of this one, unless I get inspired, since the pre-series bit was really what I wanted to write. I’m planning to write an alwaysagirl!Sam fic, as well as one where both Dean and Sam are female, so subscribe to the series if you’re interested!  
> As always, thank you for reading, hope you like it, and I love hearing from y’all :)

The angel called her a Righteous Man and Dean wanted to stab him again.

"I've spent more than enough of my life trying to live up to what men expect of me," she spat. 

"Gender has nothing to do with it," Castiel said, puzzled.

The angel seemed to spend a lot of time being puzzled.

“Then shouldn’t it be “Righteous Person” or something?”

The angel elected not to respond.

Castiel pissed Dean the hell off most of the time. The angel was a self-righteous, emotionless prick with a spine so straight it could pass for a Republilcan politician, and he and Dean could never seem to agree on anything.

He did have one thing going for him, though-- he wasn’t sexist. Considering Dean’s admittedly scant knowledge of the Bible, that came as a surprise. 

(Pastor Jim had been as fair to her as anyone else ever had been, but Dean considered him the exception to the rule. There was a reason she made Sam deal with the religious nutjobs.)

Mostly, he and Dean confused each other. He didn’t get her instinctive opposition to religion and men telling her what to do; she didn’t get his faith in God or anything else about him. 

The way he looked at her when she talked did earn him a few points in her book. It was rare that men actually focused on her words. 

Yeah. She and Cas mostly confused each other when they weren’t pissing each other off. But at least he wasn’t sexist.

The first time someone muttered _whore_ at her after Hell, Dean broke their jaw. Sam didn’t ask and Dean ignored the worry in his eyes. 

There was a lot of worry in Sam’s eyes, these days. Dean saw it when she drank a little too much, when she kept her knives on when she went to bed, when she was just a little too quick to resort to violence, when she chopped off all but a few inches of her hair in the bathroom and told him she was tired of people grabbing it.

(Sam worried about that one because he hadn’t seen that happen since she got back.)

He kept his mouth shut about Hell, and she kept her remarks about demonic STDs to herself.

Alastair called Dean _sweetheart_ when she pushed the tray of devices into the room.

"I ain't your fucking sweetheart," she said. Her voice was low and even. This was familiar, but this time she was the one holding the knife. 

That made all the difference.

"Oh, a part of you always will be," he said. "A part of you is still down in Hell, you know. You do look so pretty with blood on your hands "

She slid the syringe of holy water into one of his veins.

"I'm not here to be pretty," she told him as he screamed. "I'm here to make you regret ever laying a hand on me."

Dean was a hunter. She’d dealt with worse than Alastair. And John had taught her early how to deal with men who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Her dad wasn't there to kill Alastair, but Dean could chop the demon’s hands off for touching her anyway.

Deanna Smith was a high-powered, high-profile, highly paid lawyer who made partner at her firm within seven years. She specialized in representing women who had been assaulted by men in power. She found it rewarding, if exhausting, and she enjoyed the lifestyle it provided her with. Her trademark look was bright red lipstick with black boots.

Sam Wesson was one of the firm’s secretaries. 

When Dean and Sam came back to their real world, Sam was very indignant about that. Dean found it hilarious. 

\---

As a friend, Dean felt she had an obligation to get Cas laid before the two of them probably died. 

“So, uh.” Dean coughed. “Who’re you into? Girls, guys? Other kinds of people?”

Cas looked away and rubbed his neck.

“None of the above?”

There was no reply.

Dean considered her options. Her stint working in a strip club had permanently put her off brothels and she doubted Cas would want to go to one anyway; Cas would stick out like a sore thumb in a bar; Dean wasn’t an option, because she tried not to make a habit of fucking her friends.

People made a bigger deal out of sex than it was worth anyway.

“You wanna just play Risk or something?”

Castiel nodded fervently.

Dean lasted almost two hours before Castiel managed to take over six of the seven continents. Overall, she thought it was more fun than they would have had otherwise.

“When we were… sixteen, I think? Yeah. When we were sixteen, we pretended to be Dad’s son for three days on a hunt. And you know what? We kinda liked it. Even if the ACE bandages made our ribs hurt like hell.”

Future Dean ran her tongue over her teeth and nodded. “Yeah. Heads up, don’t use ACE bandages in the future. Cas’ll yell at you.”

“I-- we?-- we do that again?”

Future Dean smiled and didn’t answer, just left Dean cuffed to the ladder.

Future Dean wore a beat-up military uniform and no makeup. She still wore the same combat boots and weapons, though, and her hair was just as short as… Current Dean? Past Dean?

Dean gave up on thinking about it and started picking the lock on the cuffs. 

Future her was a dick. At least that much hadn’t changed. Dean did take a perverse amount of pride in being an asshole. 

Cas had changed even more in five years than Dean had.

“I’d rather play Risk,” he informed her as she watched the women trail out of his cabin. “But you-- you _now_ \-- sure as fuck isn’t interested in that anymore.”

He said _fuck_ more smoothly than Dean would’ve ever imagined him being capable of. 

“I’ll play with you,” she offered, but he just laughed. 

The Trickster stuck Dean and Sam into a low-budget medieval romance movie. Dean found herself playing the kidnapped princess who fell for her captor; Sam was her cousin, sent to rescue her; Castiel was the loyal knight accompanying him.

“Just one kiss,” the evil king murmured, leaning towards her.

“Okay, fuck this.” Dean kneed him in the groin, swung onto his horse, somewhat hampered by the stupid dress the trickster had put her in, and dug her heels in hard. 

By the time Sam and Cas showed up (somewhat worse for the wear), Dean had claimed the evil king’s kingdom and was laying siege to the neighboring one. 

The Trickster showed up to complain. 

Half of Blue Earth, Minnesota decided Dean was the epitome of sin. The other half decided she was the Whore of Babylon.

“What the fuck,” Dean panted, braced against the door. “What did I do? I don’t have _that_ much premarital sex.”

“I mean--” Sam started. 

The look Dean shot her brother made him snap his mouth shut.

“Looks like you’re a Righteous Woman after all,” Cas said. His lips curled into a faint smile. 

Dean thumped him on the back in approval. “You're learning.”


End file.
